It had been at least a year since Betsy had last visited Auntie Shal and Uncle Lem in Point Reyes, and it hardly seemed possible that the little house had deteriorated so much. Climbing the creaky stairs,
Betsy stepped with firm knees to keep from sliding on gray slime, a product of too much fog and the dust that blew in from the hills. The porch railings needed a coat of paint and a pile of cracked terra cotta pots languished in the corner, half hiding a rotted section of deck. Where was the screen door Betsy had helped Lem install a few years ago?
Betsy knocked, shivering as the wind whisked around the cottage’s corner, blowing a whiff of rosemary bread her direction. David shifted the bread bags against his middle, the copper hair on his forearms standing up like a reedy meadow. The door swung open.
“Betsy!”
Auntie Shal’s thick arms encircled her, and Betsy buried her nose in the older woman’s neck. Scents of patchouli and frying oil rewound her to her childhood, to the old white van that Shal drove between the Capay Valley and Sacramento, loaded down with vegetables to sell to the old food co-op, while Betsy rode shotgun and ate tomatoes like they were apples and her own mother, Prairie, stayed behind and slept in. To the hot afternoons on the farm, when Shal taught her to parse sentences while Prairie lounged on the sagging chaise, a joint between her thumb and forefinger, and contemplated cutting up a watermelon. Now, tight against Shal’s chest, Betsy reveled in being so cherished by her mother’s dearest friend.
David still stood, waiting for Shal and her to clear the doorway, so Betsy pulled away to introduce the two of them.
With a reserved smile, David extended his hand to Shal, who gathered it in both of hers as though warming them on a mug of soup. Mitts, she used to call her hands when she kneaded bread dough. “Fold it, press it, push it, turn it, fold, press, push, turn,” she would say, her knotty knuckles disappearing as she battled the yeast and gluten into submission. Emerging from her brown hands now, David’s wrists gleamed pale.
“I’m sure she’s told you,” said Shal, “I’m not really her aunt.”
David nodded. Betsy had filled him in on the drive over. Auntie Shal and Uncle Lem had helped Prairie raise her—first in the old house near Bolinas where she’d been born, then on the Capay farm where they all went for work, until Prairie and Betsy moved to Sacramento so Betsy could attend public high school. During Betsy’s first year of college, Shal and Lem inherited the cabin and moved out to this hillside above Inverness. “Why do you call your mother Prairie?” David had asked during this discussion, and Betsy replied with a shrug, “Everyone does.”
Inside, the cabin’s kitchen had warped wood kitchen cabinets and pockmarked linoleum, and the odor of stale oil coated the air. Lem loved his fry bread and Betsy guessed Shal had made some this morning or yesterday. Betsy also knew without inspecting that the house was clean—sinks and toilet scoured with baking soda, surfaces wiped with white vinegar, floors swept, rugs vacuumed. Pillows on the sagging couch sat plump in the corners, artworks decorated the walls and tabletops—oil paintings created by Prairie vaguely depicted a sunset over the ocean. The living room window, draped with unbleached muslin on bamboo rods, overlooked a grassy meadow. From down the hall, applause roared from a television set and the theme music to Jeopardy blared. When had Shal and Lem gotten a TV?
Pouches hung beneath Auntie Shal’s eyes and the definition she’d once had between her jawline and neck had disappeared; her grayish complexion suggested too much time spent indoors. Betsy remembered how Lem had loved the trails that wound alongside the river and into the hills near the farm, and when they first moved here, how he dragged Shal along every yard of hiking access in Point Reyes.
“You switched out the carpet,” Betsy said, pointing to the parquet floor that had once been rose-beige wall-to-wall.
“It was time,” Shal said. She smoothed her sweater, adjusting the hemline against her ample hips. Her skirt, plaid and cotton and probably homemade, nearly skimmed the floor. Betsy knew that beneath the skirt, her calloused and cracked feet were bare. Scuffed indoor-outdoor slippers waited by the front door.
“I should get Lem,” said Shal, but she didn’t move. Betsy fantasized about running down the hall to surprise Lem with their old joke—hey, I’m here, your favorite nondaughter!—but Shal’s expression stopped her. David shifted a wary glance from Betsy to Shal and back to Betsy, then set the rosemary bread on the peninsula countertop.
Shal said to Betsy, “Lem is not the same.”
“I know. Prairie has kept me updated.”
“We replaced the carpet because he had some . . . accidents.”
“The wood looks nice—and the rug’s pretty.”
“Lem won’t know who you are.”
Betsy nodded. “Auntie, are you getting any help? A visiting nurse or anyone who can give you a break?”
“Right now is a break,” said Shal. “When he watches Jeopardy. Nothing would tear him away.”
On the farm, Lem had insisted they live without a television. “A brain rotter,” he called it.
“Besides,” said Shal. “We’re managing just fine.”
Leave it to Shal to insist she could handle anything on her own. Anything different might suggest weakness. Betsy knew better than to push, so she said, “Has Prairie told you when she’s coming?”
“I don’t know why she wants to move here. She is welcome, of course, but it’s not necessary.”
“She knows that, but she wants to help.” Betsy considered pulling forth the heavy ammo—reminders of Shal and Prairie’s long history of helping each other out, their chosen status as family. Instead, she said, “For one thing, she’s looking forward to not paying rent.”
Shal grinned. “Of course she is. Lazy freeloader.”
As she laughed with Shal, Betsy wondered what would emerge from the room where applause rumbled between spots of Alex Trebek. David, standing stiff and silent, glanced that direction. No doubt he wondered, too.
“I’ll make us some tea,” Betsy said. In the kitchen, she filled the teakettle and plunked it on the stove. On the warped windowsill, glass jars held dried leaves and flowers. Betsy wondered if she could remember what was what. Shal used to gather herbs from somewhere up on Inverness Ridge between Tomales Bay and Point Reyes, but nowadays, she purchased everything from the herb shop in town. She mixed them herself, though, into concoctions to balance out various maladies. While she waited for the teakettle, Betsy watched Shal and David at the table. They were small-talking—weather, the drive over, how he and Betsy knew each other. David kept it simple: Study partners in Spanish class. Betsy had invited him along so they could go through their flash cards on the drive, and he hoped he wasn’t intruding. Shal said not to be silly, that any friend of Betsy’s was always welcome. A glow bloomed in Betsy’s chest—dear, dear Shal, her touchstone.
From down the hall, a commercial for heartburn medication promised instant relief. Shal pushed away from the table, saying she’d better get Lem, and David joined Betsy in the kitchen.
“You want some tea?” Betsy asked.
“Not much of a tea drinker.”
“I don’t think there’s any coffee.”
“What kind of tea?”
“Something . . . energizing?” Betsy drew her hand along the jars on the shelf like Vanna White showing prizes. “Unless you’d prefer calming. Or something for your sore throat. Or headache. Or menstrual cramps.”
David laughed, and put his palms to his belly. “Yeah, that.” He glanced toward the hall and whispered, “Is it really okay that I’m here?”
“Of course.”
“She’s quiet.”
“Don’t mistake quiet for unhappy that you’re here.”
David nodded, and shoved his hands in his shorts pockets. The teakettle hissed and burbled, and Betsy lifted the spout to keep it from whistling when it reached a boil. She hated the shriek.
~
Apparently David had never had loose-leaf tea before. He kept coughing. Uncle Lem, too, spit and pulled at his tongue to extract the detritus that escaped the mesh tea ball in his cup.
Betsy couldn’t remember exactly how old Uncle Lem was, but on the surface, he didn’t seem a day older than 50—a little sun-weathered, but still the compact wiry man who had taught her to drive and chop wood and to find every tomato worm ruining a crop, no matter how her head throbbed in the valley heat. But gone was the wise man with the goofy sense of humor, who could name cloud formations and constellations and every insect that invaded the fields or the cabins, every bird that crossed the farm’s airspace each fall. This Uncle Lem fussed with his khaki pants, asked repeatedly when they could go outside, and scowled at the herb shards on his fingers.
“He drinks the same gingko biloba tea every morning,” Shal said, like it was a mystery that Lem would be complaining.
“Hey, Lem,” said David. “You know what works? Eat some of the bread. It takes the little tea pieces down with it.”
“He’s not deaf,” Betsy said, patting down the air to indicate David could lower his voice.
“That’s good.” David smiled at Lem and shrugged. Lem grinned back, showing tea leaves between his yellowing teeth. David smeared butter on a slice of bread, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then stuck his tongue out at Lem. “Look—no tea leaves.”
Lem helped himself to another piece. To Betsy, he said again, “What’s your name?”
“Remember, Uncle Lem?” She smiled; he had always loved her smile. “It’s me, Betsy.”
Lem’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen window, its blinds open to reveal blue sky peeking through thinning fog.
“Does he like walks?” David whispered toward Shal.
“That can be hard,” Shal said.
Betsy wondered what could be hard about it. Lem could walk. She personally was dying to see the ocean and get a whiff of salt and sun, and maybe it would help clear Lem’s head.
“He gets agitated.”
“Couldn’t we go out to Abbott’s Lagoon?” said Betsy. “That’s pretty flat, and it’s clearing up outside.”
Shal shook her head. “This is not a good idea.”
But Lem was nodding vehemently.
With a sigh, Shal rose from her chair and said she should take him down the hall first. Her hair, braided down her back, wagged along her waistline as she lured Lem out of his chair with a gentle command “up” and nudged him along. A door closed, and mumbles muffled behind it.
“You really think we should do this?” David asked. “I didn’t mean to start trouble.”
“Uncle Lem loves the outdoors better than anything. He’ll be okay.”
“Hey.” David tapped Betsy’s forearm. “You doing okay?”
His gentle question tickled behind her nose. She looked up, prepared to smile and nod, but David’s eyes, dark, fixed on hers, and she could only shrug. David, thankfully, said nothing more, but gathered the mugs off the table and carried them into the kitchen.
“We’ll check the spinach field,” Lem was saying as the door opened down the hall. Water ran. Shal called him firmly.
“We’ll check for . . . ” At the mouth of the hallway, Lem stood in his white T-shirt, his pants open at the fly, and he worked his hands in spiral motions in the air. “For . . .”
He stopped, seeing David, and his eyes scrunched. “Who are you?”
“Remember, Uncle Lem?” said Betsy. “This is David.”
Shal carried a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand and a load of sweatshirts over her arm. She handed one to David, another to Betsy.
Lem pawed at his thighs, his forehead crinkling. Shal set a denim jacket on the arm of the couch and bent before Lem and zipped up his pants. She said, “There is nothing to worry about, Lemmy.”
David extended his hand, just as he had done when Lem first came out of the bedroom earlier. “Lem, I’m David. It’s nice to meet you.”
Betsy stared. Had David lost his mind now, too? But he was serious, businesslike.
“Hi David. Lem.” Lem shook firmly and made eye contact.
“I understand we’re going for a walk,” David said, and yanked the gray sweatshirt over his own head. The sleeves ended halfway down his forearms. “Have you got a jacket, Lem? You’ll freeze out there without one.”
Shal handed David the denim jacket from the couch. David held it aloft so the older man would thread his arms into it. When Lem turned his back to comply, David shot Betsy a conspiratorial grin.
~
Betsy gulped the fresh air and smiled at the bearded retiree who sat at a table by the entrance to the Abbott’s Lagoon trail. The fog, he promised, would be completely burned off by the time they got out to the beach, a mile-and-a-half walk, and when they got down there, they should avoid the roped-off areas that protected the snowy plover nests. Lem charged past, and David scrambled at Lem’s heels. Shal loitered, examining plastic-encased pamphlets held down by rocks on the table. Betsy, seeing Shal wasn’t rushing to catch up, shrugged at the volunteer and took off running.
Once she was a few yards behind David, she slowed to a walk. David, laughing at something Lem had said, leaned forward, right on his tail. Betsy marveled at the ease between them. Men, it seemed, maintained camaraderie based on something simpler and less sinister than the secrets and judgments that women often bonded over. She turned to check on Shal, who had left the trailhead table and now shuffled along, picking her way over the pebbly trail in her thick-soled slippers. She acted as though her feet were stuck to the road, her brain clogged with old motor oil. Betsy didn’t wonder why. She had suggested Shal get some help, and Shal felt criticized.
Betsy had been conceived and born not far from here, about half an hour south on Highway 1. Beside the waving grasses and late-summer wildflowers, as she inhaled the sea-salted breeze tinged with the scent of the nearby dairy farms, she felt like everything good could happen. Lem would get better. She would nab an internship at the paper next semester, which would lead into a paying job there after graduation, a job that involved writing about the people the community needed to embrace—the homeless, the poor, the elderly, the ill—and help would come to them. Eventually—but not till she was ready—she would meet a kind, stable, well-employed man who loved her endlessly, who wanted to settle down and buy a house, preferably close to the river, before they started a family. She would stay home with their babies; read, write and garden in her spare time. He would bring in a steady income, wrap her and the children in infinite love. Love, money and home—simple dreams for Betsy.
David stopped so abruptly that she almost crashed into him. “Look!” he whispered, pointing up the hillside.
Three deer—two does and a fawn still spotted on its hindquarters—high-stepped through the grass, knee-high on the does. They stopped, bending to nibble. The fawn’s ears flicked; it nudged closer to a scrubby shrub. A jackrabbit leaped forth and all four bounded across the slope—deer legs askew, rabbit ears bouncing. David and Betsy exploded in laughter. They stood on the trail, giggling together, until the animals vanished over the mountain.
“Oh!” David said. “Where did Lem go?”
The trail in front of them stretched empty until it disappeared into a curve.
Betsy pivoted. Shal ambled within shouting distance. “Did you see where Uncle Lem went?”
“Just around the bend,” Shal called, stopping. Dust coated the bottom third of her skirt.
David took off at a lope, calling for Lem to wait up. Betsy followed. Lem couldn’t have gone far, but they didn’t want him wandering off the trail and into poison oak or diving headfirst into the lagoon.
A group of four approached from the other way—a family, with a couple of teenaged boys. David and Betsy stepped aside, following polite trail protocol, but danced in anticipation to catch up to Lem. As soon as the family passed, Betsy pushed in front of David and sprinted, rounding the bend to see Lem standing on a bench at the outlook, arms thrust toward the sky, singing, ranting, she wasn’t sure.
“Uncle Lem!” she called, turning into the short path that led to the bench.
“Stop!” Lem shouted. He held up his hands as though to stop traffic. Betsy did.
As a flock of white birds clattered up from the lagoon, Lem began yelling. “Fu-u-u-u-ck!” he shouted, shaking his fist toward the family with the teenagers, who had stopped to stare.
“Oh, God.” David pulled up next to Betsy.
Lem ripped his sweatshirt over his head and threw it to the ground.
“Uncle Lem!” said Betsy. He never would have used such language. Sure sign of a poor vocabulary, he always said, and she’d never heard him say anything harsher than hell or damn.
“Leave me alone!” Lem wiggled out of his t-shirt. His bare chest heaved; at his waistline, skin sagged over his khakis. He had gotten skinny. “You! You! Just . . . fuck off!”
“Hey,” said David, skimming around Betsy. Lem cowered as David stepped up onto the bench beside him and lifted his own sunglasses so that they perched on his ruffled hair. “It’s okay, Lem. Remember? It’s me, David.”
Lem’s face twisted in the sun and he coiled an arm as though he might push David off the bench. Betsy held her breath.
“See those birds out there?” David pointed toward the lagoon. “What kind are they?”
“Sanderling.”
Now with their backs to Betsy, both men pointed to the lagoon, the sky, out to the dunes—on the other side, the ocean pounded the beach. As much as Betsy longed to breathe its power, at this point it might as well be across the country. Lem’s baggy pants flapped in the wind; David’s cargo shorts rode low on his hips, and his borrowed sweatshirt left a broad swath of black t-shirt beneath it. Lem recited names of birds and plants, identifying types of clouds, informing David that the moon, when it rose tonight over the hills, would be just past half-full and waxing toward a harvest moon, perfect time to clear out many of the summer’s crops from the fields.
David pointed to a mass of wispy clouds, and said something Betsy couldn’t hear, and Lem laughed. They bantered about who could get to the beach first. David jumped off the bench, swept up Lem’s t-shirt and sweatshirt, and handed them up with a command to put them back on, t-shirt first. The older man struggled to get it straight, but David didn’t intervene. Instead, he slid his sunglasses back down onto his nose, then turned to Betsy just as Shal joined her, and said, “Lem and I—we’re going to go to the beach. He says he knows the way.”
“He does,” said Shal. “Just make sure he keeps his clothes on.”
David’s hair ruffled in the wind as he eyed Lem squirming into his sweatshirt. “All of them?” he asked with a dubious twist to his mouth.
“Mostly his pants.” Shal gave a half-smile.
David’s eyebrows shot above his sunglasses. He chuckled, and pinkness warmed his cheeks. The sun had burned away almost all the cloud cover, and they hadn’t even considered sunscreen.
David extended a hand to help Lem down, and the two of them proceeded along the trail toward the dunes. Lem led the way. David glanced back and waved, lifted his thumb, then trotted to catch up, hitching up his own shorts along the way.
“What is he to you?” asked Shal, pressing her hand against Betsy’s back and guiding her to the bench.
“David?” Betsy watched a giant brown bird swoop in the sky over the distant hillside. Lem would know what kind. “He’s my study partner in Spanish.”
“Yes, he said that. But you already know Spanish.”
“That’s why I figured it would be an easy class to knock out my foreign language requirement.”
“He’s got eyes like a pond on a moonlit night.”
Betsy snorted. “Oh, Auntie, so poetic.”
Shal swung her feet. “I just know what I see.”
In the distance, David and Lem dropped behind the first layer of dunes. “I should have told David to keep Lem away from the nests,” Shal said.
“They’re roped off.” Betsy remembered, now, the admonitions from the parks volunteer about the snowy plovers.
“That wouldn’t stop Lem.”
Betsy stared at her knees, sturdy beneath her denim cut-offs. Prairie had always praised her peasant knees, calling them a sign of fortitude. “He’s gotten worse.”
“Yes.”
“Auntie, you really can’t take care of him by yourself.”
Shal’s feet continued to brush the dirt. Two young men, their pant legs tucked inside their boots against ticks, said hello as they passed, holding hands.
“You really can’t,” Betsy said, gentler, “take care of him by yourself.”
“Maybe not.”
Shal’s profile was as inscrutable as ever—flat, broad nose, puffy lips, eyes wide open and unblinking in the sunlight. Betsy reached for her hand, and Shal flopped hers palm up and squeezed. “I miss you every day, Betsy.”
“But I am no help. He’s afraid of me.”
“He is often afraid of me, too.” Shal said. “I think when Prairie comes, he’ll be afraid of her.”
“Why?”
“He is better with men.” With a mirthless laugh, she went on, “All our lives, he has admired women. Not in a bad way. But appreciating their beauty and strength. Now? Women terrify him. They make him forget things faster. I think, sometimes, he would be better without me.”
“He needs you.”
“Yes. Because there’s no one else.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“At the clinic in town, yes. They believe it is early Alzheimer’s disease.”
“Meaning it is still treatable.” A ray of hope speared Betsy.
“No. Meaning it has hit him early, has moved fast and is already in later stages. They don’t say much except that I should be looking at . . . institutions. A nursing home. I would never put him in one of those places.”
“They’re saying that already?”
“It is happening fast. Every day, he is less . . .”
Betsy waited for an adjective, then realized that was it: less.
“What about money?”
Shal clucked her tongue. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Shal and Lem had never talked about money, but Prairie kept no secrets, so Betsy knew Shal and Lem didn’t have much. Until the past year or so, Lem had done handyman work around the county and Shal had waited tables at a cafe in town.
“I’m graduating in May,” Betsy said. “I’ll send you everything I won’t be spending on tuition after that. And more,” she added, her chest broadening with magnanimity, “when I get my job at the paper.”
Shal dropped her head. “Lem wouldn’t want that.”
Betsy, undeterred, didn’t answer. Ever since she had a pregnancy scare last year—enough to generate terror for a couple days—she had even greater appreciation for Shal and Lem, helping Prairie back when she was pregnant and alone. Now that Shal and Lem needed help, she would contribute. When Prairie moved in with them, Betsy would send the money to her. Prairie wouldn’t flinch.
“Come on,” she said, tugging on Shal’s hand. “Enough heavy talk. Let’s go to the beach.”
On the beach, waves crashed in twos and threes, pounding the sand, hissing as they receded. Lem had peeled off his shoes and socks and ran along the wet shoreline, David following. The wind and water whipped Lem’s energy into a frenzy, and he ran like a child, windmilling his arms and whooping, again throwing his sweatshirt and shirt to the ground. He stopped before Betsy and Shal long enough to let the foam lap his feet.
“He’s fast,” David said. “Good thing I’ve kept up my jogging program.”
Lem wandered up the rise of the beach, groping at his waistband.
“Nope,” David said, hopping in place so he could be ready to sprint again. “Leave your pants on.”
Lem raced past him, beaming, and David chased.
When Lem tired, he dropped to the sand a few feet from Betsy and Shal. He flopped onto his back, propped up on his elbows, facing the ocean. David joined him, emulating his posture. Bellies heaving, he and Lem glanced at each other and grinned. Betsy gazed beyond their heads, marveling at the vigor of the water, dipping and rising under the sun.
“Tide’s out,” Lem said. “We’d be underwater if we camped here tonight.”
“Luckily, we won’t be doing that.” David’s voice, like Lem’s, carried despite the tumbling surf.
“Yes, we could.” The way Lem said it, Betsy guessed he wasn’t as enamored with Alex Trebek as Shal thought.
“Not this time,” David said.
“Next time,” said Lem.
“I’d like that.” David pointed to the north, where a sandy cliff, bearded with brush, jutted out onto the beach. “We’ll bring a tent and some sleeping bags.”
“Some beer.”
David shrugged. “You could even run around buck-ass naked if you want.”
“Got to watch for jellyfish,” said Lem. “They can sting.”
“Poisonous?”
“No!” Lem cocked his head. “What is your name again?”
“David.”
“Who are you?”
“Betsy’s friend.”
A little flutter wiggled in Betsy’s belly. Of course they were friends—she had invited him along today.
“Who is Betsy?”
David straightened his arms, stretching his torso. “Uhh . . . Prairie’s daughter.”
“Who?” Lem stared out at the surf, bobbing his head with the cadence of the swells.
“Prairie . . . your wife’s friend. Shal’s friend.”
Indeed, Betsy had briefed David on all this on their drive, but she hadn’t expected he would remember. She peeked at Shal, who wore an expression that made Betsy think of a child enthralled with a magician. But Shal was staring at Lem, not David.
“Betsy . . .” Lem said.
From where she sat, Betsy couldn’t see David’s face—just the back of his head, his hair, coppery and rumpled under the sun—but she could see Lem’s, broad with reminiscent joy. “Betsy . . . the baby girl. In 1975 . . .”
Lem’s voice drifted away with the wind for a moment and Betsy only caught parts of something about her father being a useless dreamer. “We helped Prairie bring that baby. Shal put us to work. The rain. The cold. That baby girl came and she squawked like a little egret. It was . . . just . . . wonderful.”
Shal crabbed her hand across the sand to Betsy’s.
“We had a tremendous mess to clean up,” Lem said, still grinning, “but we were all so happy. When she finally smiled, it was the prettiest smile. We all traded carrying Betsy in a blanket that Prairie and Shalini turned into a . . .” Lem sat up tall and held his hands in front of his belly as though he cradled a football.
David leaned back on his elbows and lifted his face to the sun, grinding his heels into the sand. “I bet she did have a great smile,” Betsy heard him say.
Lem’s mouth fell open and a sheen of vacancy crept across his expression. He frowned at David and said, “Who are you?”
~
Later, Betsy drove, shifting through the gears on the winding road. She caught drops with her tongue and dragged her arm across her nose, and David twisted his hands and begged her to stop. But she could only sob, comparing the Uncle Lem from her childhood against the rheumy-eyed man she had seen today, the Auntie Shal who taught her about sentences and bread, now so heavy and hollow-eyed. The moment on the beach, when Lem recounted her birth, somehow made it worse—the two-minute teaser tangled up in a strange new softness Betsy couldn’t identify. Across the bridge, past the cheese factory and reservoir, past the dog park and the stables, through all the stop signs leading to the freeway—when she merged onto Highway 37, tide had come in under the September moon, and the marsh waters danced. David tentatively put his hot hand on her wet arm and asked if she was okay, and she nodded and sniffled, and when she glanced over, she saw his eyes gleaming in the dark, and she thought of a moonlit pond.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Krista Minard has published fiction and essays in literary anthologies including Susurrus, Paper Wings, and Soul of the Narrator. She is a magazine editor and writer, and she lives in Folsom, California, with her husband, two daughters and several cats. When she’s not writing or editing, she’s reading, cooking or exploring the trails near her home within walking distance of Folsom Lake and the new Johnny Cash Trail.